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“Alma.” The girl pulled a face. “I was named after my grandmother.”

“Thank you, Alma.” Faith fished a coin from her pocket and handed it to the wide-eyed girl. “You’ve been most helpful.”

Another pleased grin split Alma’s freckled face. “If you need anything, miss, you just ask me.”

She took a swift, furtive peek up and down the corridor before stepping closer.

“I never paid any of that tattle about you being Lord Constantine’s mistress any mind, Miss. Anybody who knows him knows he’s an honorable gentleman. I’m glad he’s found someone so nice to marry.”

Before Faith could respond, Alma resumed her humming and her trek to the upper story to deliver towels to guests.

Faith wasn’t certain whether to be relieved or annoyed that even the servants had heard the ugly rumors. Although the truth was that servants always knew what went on in a house, even when the residents didn’t.

A ghost of a smile played around the edges of her mouth as she followed Alma’s directions to the kitchen. At least someone hadn’t believed the tattle, even if it was only a maid.

The aromas of coffee, ham, and something sweet and spicy filtered to her as Faith descended the narrow stairway.

She inhaled deeply.

Heavenly.

Her stomach gurgled its appreciation too.

Hesitant and reluctant to intrude, she paused at the hospitable but immaculate kitchen’s threshold.

“Good mornin’ to ye, miss. May I be of assistance?”

A rotund, red-cheeked woman with a profusion of frizzy gray-blonde curls sticking out from beneath her mob cap wiped her hands on her crisp, no-nonsense apron as she trundled forward.

“Um, yes. I wondered if perhaps I might have an early breakfast? Just an apple or a piece of bread to take with me on a walk?”

“Pshaw, nothin’ for it.” The cook marched across the kitchen, pointing to a well-used corner table. “Have a seat, miss. I’ll have ye fed in nae time.”

Faith hadn’t planned on lingering in the kitchen, but her stomach growled again. Loudly.

She pressed a hand to her middle.

Her eyes twinkling, Cook asked, “Do ye favor cinnamon buns?”

That was what the scrumptious smell was.

“I do.”

Faith couldn’t recall the last time she enjoyed such a scrumptious indulgence.

Mouth practically watering, she settled onto a hardback chair, observing the servants as they efficiently performed their tasks. Friendly teasing and good-natured rivalry punctuated their conversations. This was a well-run home with content, happy domestics.

That said much about the Landriths.

A bashful girl of no more than twelve brought Faith tea, milk, and sugar. She dipped an awkward curtsy. “Here you are, miss. I nipped the sugar this morning.”

“Thank you very much.” It was brown sugar, not the precious white sugar reserved for those above stairs. Faith didn’t give a farthing.

Blushing, the girl, probably the scullery maid, scampered away.

“Start peelin’ those potatoes n’ carrots, Mary,” the cook said as the girl passed. “And then scrub the beets.”

“Yes, ma’am.”